Accidental repost of Away Back to Then
by NerdAngel
Summary: This story was accidentally reposted. So sorry, this was a late night oppsie. Feel free to read it if you haven't already on it's original send out. Takes place S10 E23.


**This is a one shot based off of SPN S9 finale. If you haven't seen season 9 and don't want any spoilers, DON'T read this short. Also mentions S3 episode "Mystery Spot," as well for anyone who hasn't seen that one either.**

 **Feedback would of course be appreciative.**

 **I don't own Supernatural.**

A Way Back To Then

I needed warmth.

Closing my eyes, I tilted my head back and downed another glass full of whiskey. If my insides could scream they would be as deafening as the silence I was sitting in. However, unlike the silence, I welcomed the warmth, even though it lasted only a minute or so. It felt good, however it wasn't the kind of warmth I was craving. Everything was cold. The night air outside, the Men of Letters bunker, myself, and especially my big brother's dead body of which I had rested gingerly down onto his bed some minutes ago. Only the shots of alcohol that I continuously poured into my own body were warm. I didn't even know why I bothered using a glass, I may as well have just drank straight from the bottle. It's not like I wasn't going to consume it all anyways. Normally, I wasn't much of a drinker, well at least not when you compared me to my brother who had practically breathed the stuff. I was known to have a beer or two with him, three tops on a particularly rough day. However, there are 5 steps of the Sam Winchester grieving program, and one of them did call for some alcohol.

Step one: Bawl like a bitch, as Dean would so delicately put it. That step had been completed back at the factory where I had witnessed my brother's death, and not for the first time. I remember a time in particular where I had lived through at least 100 Tuesdays simultaneously and every one of those Tuesdays I had had to watch Dean die. It had all been part of the arch angel Gabriel's way of teaching me a lesson.

 _"Nothing good comes out of it,"_ he had said referring to my desperate attempt to bring back my brother after he was shot and killed in the motel parking lot on my first Wednesday off of the Tuesday merry-go-round. _"Just blood and pain."_ What he clearly didn't understand was that blood and pain was what came when I DIDN'T save Dean. So, why not try if that's what I was going to get one way or another?

The most scarring of death's of my brother I had to witness however, was when he was dragged to Hell six years ago. Having to watch helplessly as Hellhounds tore Dean apart, knowing that the reason he was going through such agony and where he was going to end up was because he made a deal to bring ME back from the dead in exchange for his soul, was torture. I had tried so hard all that year to save him, to find a way out of the deal where both of us could walk away freely. He had fought so hard for me not to find a way out of fear that the demons would get pissy and have me drop dead right where I stood. His lack in self caring was truly heartbreaking. Yet, that undoubtedly had always been my brother's m.o for as long as I could remember. None the less, that death messed me up and hurt in ways that Dean couldn't possibly have understood.

And then there I was only a few hours ago, cradling my brother's lifeless beat up form once again, crying my eyes out. It had to have been at least an hour if not two before I managed to carry him back to the car and strap him in to the passenger side seat (only after pulling out two blankets from the back, one to try and keep Dean's beloved Impala from getting too bloody, the other I had draped over him as though to keep him warm and comfortable). As gently as I could, I tried to clean off the blood that covered his face by using the only things that I had at my disposal at the time, my spit and shirt. I knew that if he had been alive he would cringe and try to push me away, saying that that was unorthodox and that if I so much as came near him again, he would kick my ass. I was able to get the bulk of it off, but still some was dried at the point of needing more than what I currently had. I would have to wipe him down with water and a washcloth when we got back to the bunker. I climbed into the driver's side, adjusted everything accordingly, and started up the engine. Mullet rock music blared through the stereo causing me to jump half out of my skin. I cussed, jabbed my right index finger at the eject button, and smacked the palm of my hands onto the steering wheel a few times before throwing myself over it crying like a tired two year old having a temper tantrum because they weren't getting their way. I lay hunched over, shoulders heaving, nose running, carrying on for a solid almost half hour more letting the car idle. the familiar rumble, or purr as Dean would call it, was an obnoxious mixture of calming familiarity and a prompt haunting. I pulled myself together again, not caring that I must have looked like a complete and utter loser, not that anyone actually saw me or the scene that I was making. The car ride back to the bunker was uncomfortably silent, but I preferred the silence over the reminder of the man laying dead in the seat next to me. Once home, I pulled him from the blankets, and made my way down the stairs, no easy task when you're carrying 165lbs or so of dead weight. It was as I was carrying him that I realized...Dean had lost a lot of weight. My brother was normally a good 10lbs or so heavier, or at least he had been the last time I had picked him up. Guilt started to weigh on me, and I tried to push it away and focus on not dropping Dean

. Finally I reached his room and placed him down on his bed ever so gently, as though he had been a small child who had simply fallen asleep on the couch watching tv.

Which brings me to step two: get shit-faced drunk. I could tell by the swimming and lightheaded sensation in my brain and the lack of seeing straight that I had accomplished the second step successfully.

I finished off the un-opened bottle of whiskey that I had found stashed by a pile of books that my brother had been flipping through just this morning. He had tried to cover just how much and how bad his drinking had gotten, but no matter how hard he tried, I knew. I always knew. There had been so many times that I had wanted to bring up his drinking habit with him, but instead just left him alone to drown his sorrows. Because that was exactly what he had been doing, especially within the last few months at least.

I placed the now completely empty glass next to the equally as empty bottle and stared at it for awhile until I finally got up on shaky legs and staggered into Dean's room, holding on to bookcases and the wall when my body alone was unable to fully support myself.

As I reached my destination, a strange feeling wormed it's way into me. I had felt this consciousness too many times before. My heart was pounding and even though I could barely walk let alone stand, I felt as though I could fly. However, that high much like the warmth had only lasted a minute, if that. I could slap myself for being so stupid, for allowing myself hope that I would walk into my brother's room and would find him standing by his bed looking at his stab wound in his chest and making some kind of wiseass remark upon seeing me enter. To which I would respond with an eye roll or a look of disapproval at his recklessness...or both. But I wasn't greeted with anything more then grief, cold, and more silence. I swayed into his room and went to stand at his bedside for the second time since I had brought him home. I peered down at my brother, closing one eye and squinting and then switching eyes. You might think that after dealing with death all my life and with this not being the first time I have held my only living relative's body in my hands that it would maybe not be as bad. You would be wrong. No matter how many times I have had it happen, watching Dean die would never get any easier. I fought back the urge to vomit from the mixture of too much alcohol and the stench of decay that was already starting to creep from my brother. He had an open wound on the right side of his forehead along with cuts and bruises right above his eyebrow, the left side of his cheek, and down on his chin. I had taken a cloth and warm water to his face to try and get the rest of the blood off, but I just couldn't completely wipe it all clean. Dried blood still plastered parts of his face and hair and both his flannel, and under shirt. My own once green shirt with rust colored stripes was now a muddy color due to the dried blood from when I carried and held my big brother close after catching him when he fell into my arms when he passed. His lips were slightly parted and were now a light shade of blue. His green eyes, which I imagine were glazed over by now, had closed just before his head hit my shoulder just seconds after muttering his parting words to me _"I'm proud of us."_

Before I had a chance to react or even know what was happening, my body deciding that I no longer could hold up my own weight. I collapsed to my knees next to Dean's bed in heap. As I did my best to look up at him, thoughts came rushing to my head. No not thoughts, memories, and not for the first time since his death. However this one really struck me.

It had been a rainy morning, shortly after I had been free of the angel that had taken up residence inside of me and I had agreed to come back to the bunker. I had started to make my way from my room downstairs, which I had more or less barricaded myself in since my return, and ventured up to the main floor and into the kitchen. As I got closer, I could smell frying pork and slightly burnt toast. Before I could stop myself, I had wondered into clear vision of my brother of whom was working away at the frying pan on the stove. Hoping beyond hope I hadn't been spotted, I turned to go back to my room.

"Hey," Dean's voice had rang out. He and I hadn't really been on talking terms. Anytime I had been doing some research in the Men of Letters study room and Dean would enter, I would make what I thought was a suttle exit back to my room. I just couldn't stand being around him, not when I still felt so betrayed and my blood boiled just at the mere sight of him.

"Hey," I had responded. I took a step back towards the hall, trying to make things less awkward.

"Sam hey, wait." Dean had called out. I froze, and turned back around to face him. "You want some breakfast?" he asked causally. I had looked at a plate that contained two pieces of buttered toast and sizzling bacon of which he had just finished cooking.

"No, thanks." I turned around again.

"Sammy come on, this is bullshit," Dean had said in a slightly agitated voice. I scoffed and crossed my arms over my chest.

"Bullshit?" I had echoed.

"Look I said I was sorry alright, what more do you want from me?"

I looked at my brother, disbelief flooding through me. What more do I want? Was he serious right now? Were we really going to get into it again? Hadn't this all been cleared up the night after we got back from a hunt where a pishtaco was taking an extra step from sucking fat to full on sucking victims completely dry? Since that night neither one of us has had much to say to the other. I know I said some things that my brother didn't want to hear, but he had needed to. I thought it had made a difference, but judging by how this conversation was going, I would say I was wrong.

"Nothing," I had responded simply.

"Then what's with the pissed off housewife silent treatment act?" he had pushed.

"I've already told you, we've already gone through this," I had snapped. "You lied to me Dean, and tricked me." This subject was not only sore, but getting to be a bit redundant.

"I did it to protect you," was his counter. I couldn't help but roll my eyes. My arms had slid from each other and hung down loosely at my sides. That response was like an automatic voice recording.

"Not this again," had been my reply. "Dad has been gone for about 9 years now. I'm in my thirties. You don't need to watch me like a hawk anymore. It's no longer your job. It really hasn't been since I went off to college."

"Ran off you mean," Dean had corrected me. I shook my head at him.

"Really?"

He shrugged his shoulders "just calling it as it is."

I rubbed at my face and cleared my throat. "Whatever, that's not my point Dean!"

"No no of course not, it never is," he shot back. "You can get up on your high horse and tell me I have betrayed you, but you never stopped to think about what your run away stunt you pulled did to me. You can't even begin to fathom how I felt and the wrath I had to deal with when Dad..." Dean's voice trailed off and his eyes turned from me to look at the kitchen wall. Silence had fallen between us, leaving only the sounds of the refrigerator. "You remember, back when you couldn't have been more than 6 and Dad took us to some hole in the wall bar and grill in Layfayette Indiana," my brother's voice broke the silence. "Dad had got up to use the restroom and you and I had been so thirsty that we drank up all of our soda before the food arrived. You took up Dad's drink thinking he had ordered a soda too, and took a big gulp. It was bourbon. You started coughing and choking and in the process, the cup slipped from your hands and smashed onto the table. Bourbon and glass went everywhere: the table, the floor, our laps. When Dad got back he was irate and demanded we tell him what had happened. You had busted into tears the moment your lap was wet, so I told Dad that I had wanted to take a sip from his drink since I finished mine and I was thirsty. He apologized to the waitress who had rushed over to clean up the glass and alcohol and made us do the same. Once we were back in the car Dad let me have it, yelling and telling me I needed to be more careful and that the I could have gotten him into some serious trouble because the drink I was drinking had been a "gown up" drink. He didn't shut up the whole drive back to the motel."

"Ok, so? That was years ago," had been my response.

"Later on when Dad had taken off on a job, you came up to me and thanked me for taking the blame for you. For lying to Dad to save you from his rage."

I sighed.

"Or how about the night you ran away from me to go to Stanford?"

"Dean," my tone had been a warning.

"You go off, don't tell me what you're doing or where you're going. I'm left standing in the fucking motel worried sick with a million terrible thoughts rushing through my head as to what happened to you. Then Dad calls and checks up. When he asks about you, I come up with something on the spot to save your ass from being in a world trouble. Then when he got home and found you gone," Dean had whistled. "My point is that I have been lying to save your ass for years. I don't do it to piss you off or because Dad told me it's my job to look after you, I do it because you're my family. Despite you saying we aren't, we are still blood. That won't ever change even though you wouldn't do the same for me. And you can bitch at me and hate me all you want, but I will always save you." I had looked at my brother taken aback.

"That's not your choice Dean! That's what you're failing to understand," I snapped throwing my arms up. I chose to ignore his comment about me hating him, figuring it was his way of being melodramatic and trying to get me to feel like shit. "I was the one who was doing the trials, not you. I should have been able to choose if I wanted to close the gates of Hell whether it would kill me or not. I have the right to decide when enough is enough." We both stood in silence again looking at one another. This time I had been the one to break the silence, trying to keep my voice as calm as possible. "I was ready to go Dean, and you took that from me because you couldn't handle being alone. I'm not some snot nose little brat who always needs their big brother watching over all the time anymore, I haven't been for years now. You need to live your life and let me live mine."

Dean had stood staring at the kitchen wall again, I could practically hear the agony that was clearly consuming my brother. He turned from the wall towards me and nodded his head.

"Yeah except, you didn't want to live yours Sam. That shit ain't gonna fly with me."

I had scoffed and ran my hands through my hair trying my best to not yank it out.

"Huh, wow. Just...wow," I had replied. "Look if it's all the same to you, I want to get back to my room." My eyes had met my brother's for the last time that entire day. His looked heavy and worn with huge dark circles around them. I was willing to bet that my brother hadn't had a good nights sleep since the departure of Gadreel, or possibly even since Kevin's death. He didn't answer me, just stood there looking like someone kicked his puppy. I had taken the initiative of leaving the room.

I snapped out of my memory and found myself crying again. The floor beneath me was already turning dark and damp. My puffy red eyes tried to focus on Dean laying in his bed once again, but between the alcohol and the tears, everything was blurred.

Step three: Bawl like a bitch...again and wallow in self-reproach. I would have given anything to go back and clarify what I had meant that night when I said I wouldn't save him. I wish I could tell him that sure I was angry with him and he was a major pain in the ass, but I could never hate my brother even if I wanted to. My brief time with Dean before he died hadn't been near enough for me to fully explain and apologize to him or tell him that I was proud of us too. I would have tried to put his mind at ease so he didn't drink himself into what I figured had been an uneasy slumber all those times he was up until unseeingly hours of the morning, pouring over books looking for any hopes on figuring out how to kill a Knight of Hell. Anytime I had suggested he go talk to a therapist about his problems way back in the day, his answer was always the same. "Hell no I'm not going to go talk to some uppity douche that I don't even know about my troubles like some little bitch. Fuck that. That's what alcohol is for." I had tried to get him to vent and cry on my shoulder too, at least I had in the past. I would pry and just about beg him to open up to me. That as his little brother, it was kinda my job for him to come to me about anything and talk. There was a time where even though it sometimes took weeks or even months, he would share with me his sorrows or fears just a little. He'd done the same with Cas as well who had been the only living friend Dean had had for quite some time. However, when my brother had really needed me most, I had only added to his sorrows by either ignoring him or being short with him. Damn my self righteousness.

"I'm so sorry Dean," I sobbed "I'm so sorry." My tears of grief slowly started to twist into step four: Get Pissed. It was my fault that Dean was so reckless. After all, he probably figured that I would find he was better off dead. No one to stop 'Little Sammy' from making life choices or step in to be my hero. I would be free of the ever watchful eyes of my big brother. But that hadn't been what I wanted. I had tried to refrain him from going too kill crazy, which had only added to his depression. A part of me had hoped that my trying to prevent him from always having the blade on hand would be an indicator that I did care and was concerned for him. Then, just when I thought he had come around and we were actually planning on stopping Metatron together as a team like back in the day, he pulled his "protect Sammy" move and knocked me out. That fucking Mark of Cain and First Blade. If we hadn't gotten into that fight and I hadn't left Dean alone, he would never have gotten the damn thing. A light bulb went off in my head and my anger turned from self loathing/pity to that of another cuprite in his death. Surely Crowley had had a clue that the Mark would take hold and turn my brother into a dangerous killing machine. This whole time, with him not answering their calls and trying to be Dean's new BFF and avoid me at all costs. It must have been easy for him to manipulate my brother into accepting the Mark, especially when he already was feeling worthless and shitty.

The sobs seemed to have subside and I used Dean's bed as a crutch to get myself back onto my feet.

"This shit isn't going to fly with me," I quoted. I wobbled, but I refused to fall down. Not this time. Stumbling out of Dean's room, I made my way to the dungeon where I had been storing my brother after he went AWOL and slashed Gadreel nearly killing him. Everything I needed was still sitting there from when he had worked the summoning ritual earlier that morning. "Alright Crowley," I said out loud. "You got him into this mess, you will get him out, or so help me God." Step five: Do WHATEVER it takes to bring back my brother.


End file.
